Waiting
by Another Icarus
Summary: Sequel to Speak Easy - Richard Grayson does not like waiting. 1920's AU


AN: So, a pair of friends managed to talk me into writing smut for my 1920's fic, Speak Easy Boys, and They'll Come Shouting. I highly recommend you read that before continuing onto this, seeing as it's directly after. I just felt weird bumping up that fic's entire rating to MA from K+ when really, that whole first chapter stands alone very well from this.

Anyway, no specific warnings. Language, and smut, but that's it! Please, read, enjoy, and review. ;w;

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><p>He glanced again at the clock on the wall, and shifted a bit in the chair he had flopped into hours before. It was the closest to the door, though he would swear up and down that it was simply the most comfortable for waiting for late cops who put their duties ahead of a very fine piece of ass.<p>

If he did say so, himself.

Though, he supposed that wasn't fair to Bruce Wayne. The sneaking around necessary to keep this tryst a secret was nearly enough to put him off from it. Surely, nothing was worth the amount of secrecy and stolen kisses that had to pass between them.

Five past one in the morning. He huffed and slumped down in his seat a little, crossing his arms. He could practically hear Bruce in his head, chuckling and letting him know just how well he filled the part of petulant child.

Really, he supposed, all the sneaking around was for Wayne's comfort. Richard Grayson was not one to care for public opinion. Richard Grayson was not one for public decency and he did not have the patience or desire to go sneaking around like he was at the moment. As if he were guilty of some heinous crime, rather than just falling outside of the social norm. Richard Grayson could have just about whoever he wanted-

-and he had wanted and decided on the one man who wanted to keep his public appearance untarnished. The one man who would never allow for so much as a brushing of their hands at a social engagement that they both just happened to find themselves invited to it.

The one rotten, horrible man who would keep him waiting a full three hours just to prove a point about who he was the lover of, and just how much he could get away with without Dick ever really raising a fuss.

Dick glanced at the clock again, chewing on his bottom lip. Ten past, now, the minute hand edging its way decidedly closer to fifteen past. He made a low grumbling noise, shifting in the set to hang his legs over the arm, kicking off his wing-tipped shoes that dropped to the ground with a clatter – he was certain his downstairs' neighbor highly appreciated that. He plucked at one of his suspenders and entertained the notion of changing out of his business clothes – he'd already mourned the loss of his good dinner jacket, though he supposed that was a small price in order for word to travel that he watched out for lady visitors to his club, kept their shoulders warm. For all his possessiveness, Wayne always showed small appreciation that Dick took measures to come off as a lady-killer, to throw any sideeyes away from them and possible social ruin.

If he was honest with himself, Dick really did understand the concern – dislike it though he may. Besides the obvious problems of two men carrying on in the bedroom as they did, there would be the inescapable whisperings (all entirely true) that Wayne was the only reason Dick wasn't jailed for violating the prohibition. Wayne would lose his job, doubtlessly, his reputation, surely – everything. While Dick only ran the risk of losing his only safety net. Well, and possibly the only lover he'd honestly cared about, if he was completely honest with himself.

He wasn't, really, if he could avoid it. Difficult things came up when he was honest. He preferred the shallow persona he had carved out for himself in order to make it in Gotham – in order to survive. That persona came with a mantra of 'do not care, do not tell truths'. Easiest, he told himself. The best way, he told himself, and then found himself questioning it more and more often since finding himself with Bruce.

It was terrible, wretched. Threatened everything.

And, if he was honest, he found it to be the best thing he'd ever experienced. Knew that it was the best thing to happen to him.

But then, he tried not to be honest with himself.

A quick glance at the clock revealed the time to now be half past, and still no sign of his lover. Briefly, he played once more with the idea of changing, getting comfortable – possibly even going to bed! Certainly, that would serve Bruce right, to show up and find that not only did he have to let himself in, but that his whole purpose for visiting had gone off to bed without him. The only thing that really gave him pause, really _stopped_ that particular train in the station was the fear that if he rejected Bruce once, flat out ignored him when they both knew what they wanted, what that kiss in the alley had acted as prelude for, then Bruce wouldn't come by again – Dick would shatter this wonderful, fragile thing as carelessly as he always managed to do with these sort of important things.

He would wait, he decided, because he'd be damned if he screwed this up. He sighed, and settled in his chair, crossing one leg over the other on the other arm. He tiled his head back comfortably, and closed his eyes, letting the darkness and the soft ticking of the clock settle around him.

That kiss had been – good God almighty, too short, first of all. It had been there and then gone, like the smoke off a cigarette, present and thick and heavy before suddenly whisked away by a passing breeze. It had lacked their normal push and pull – that delicious pressure that was just one facet of their dynamic that he'd never really had with anyone else. A smile settled on his lips, lazily as he stared blankly up at the ceiling.

Had they all the time in the world, Bruce would've shoved him more completely against the wall. Trapped him, his arms, his legs – left him with no possible escape, not even a real way to do what he wanted. The kiss would've been firm at first, firm and chaste, Bruce slowly allowing it to change into something more heated, something that accurately shared the heat between them.

Bruce would catch back his wrists in one of his warm, calloused hands – perhaps even free his hands entirely with use of his handcuffs – not that Bruce ever allowed that. He didn't think it was good to use his work equipment for play but if he _did_-

Dick arched his back a little, trying to reposition himself on the chair, palming his crotch. A little gasp escaped him at the friction, eyes closing again.

With Dick's hands out of the way, and Dick incapable of touching or moving anything along faster than exactly the speed Bruce wanted, he'd kiss his way down Dick's neck until his starched collar prevented further travel. Slowly, ignoring any of Dick's vocal pleas to just _go_, to move and do anything, everything just _please_, he'd unbutton just the top two buttons of Dick's dress shirt, letting the collar purt under his tie – which would shortly be dispatched to some dark reach of the alley, never to be seen again.

Dick had changed from simply trying to loosen his trousers against his hardening member to tracing his fingers around the outline it was forming against the pressed material, dragging soft, low sounds out from himself, bringing his hips to uselessly twitching, his other hand gripping the back of the chair.

Bruce would nudge aside the collar, sucking out a bruise exactly where it could be hidden with Dick's wardrobe. Just one of his small wars waged to make Dick entirely certain that he was his. Dick wouldn't care though, wouldn't mind. He'd just moan softly, ask Bruce to _please_ move it along before he exploded in desire, and – and then Bruce would kiss him to silence him, forcing his head back against the wall. Those wonderfully calloused hands would tug his shirttails out from tucked in his trousers and smoothing out his skin underneath. Waiting until Dick was pressing against him needily, whining into their kiss to communicate his outright _need_ to be taken right then, right there against the brick face, still clothed and cuffed and out where anyone could see them.

His mind jumped then, past the annoying buckles and fastenings of their pants and directly to an image of his legs wrapped around Bruce's waist, his shackled hands at the back of Bruce's neck, held up only between Bruce holding him and the wall against his back. The officer slipping deep into him, hitting that point with every stroke and-

Dick's breath caught in his throat with the solid rapping hit his apartment's door. He moved his hand away from his crotch immediately, chest heaving in small, shallow breaths as he returned himself to the present reality, which was a dark room with a clock and chairs and a bed just down the hallway.

And knocking on the door, right. That part was important. Hugely so. He righted himself, and started to stand just as the deadbolt in the door started to turn. Bruce was using his own key. Right. Good. He could just-

Man alive, Bruce Wayne was glorious, even backlit by the dim evening lighting of his apartment building, looking tired but curious all in one shot. "Dick, did you fall asleep waiting for me?" He asked while stepping inside, clearly not seeing Dick just beyond the fall of the hall's lighting, turning and closing the door behind him. Dick chose to move then, coming up behind him and waiting until Bruce had turned again, facing him, before reaching up and kissing him firmly, hands framing his face, body pressing up against the firmer body of the cop.

Bruce's response came in the way of getting a firm grip on Dick's upper arm, and turning them, planting Dick right up against the wall for the third – no, second, he reminded himself, despite how aching that dreamt instance had him – time. "I see you aren't sleeping, which is good. Eager, in fact, aren't you?"

"God above, Bruce, can we please cut to the chase this one night and not play cat and mouse all the way to the bed?" Dick frowned, lifting his arms again and twining them around Bruce's neck, drawing him close for another kiss. He was allowed that, Bruce giving in with a sigh and patience. The man chuckled though, when he drew away.

"You know, with how much trouble you're in from earlier, you're in no position to be making demands, Grayson." He informed him, curling a hand – the rough feel of the callouses was true to memory and fantasy and that sent a shiver up Dick's spine, his eyes fluttering shut – under Dick's chin, angling his head just right.

"Fine, okay. I promise, no more demands from this smart mouth. Just, c'mon, B, please?"

"Please? Good, you're learning. Whoever said an alleydog can't learn manners?"

"What's eating you?" Dick retorted, feeling rather like challenging him. This would probably turn out to be a problem in the long run, but seemed like a good idea at the time. At least, very shortly, it seemed like a good idea, until a more punishing kiss was pressed to his lips, Bruce crowding in against him, pressing him flush against the door.

"What's eating me? Between the fact that you would've got carted off to jail if it had been anyone but me tonight and the fact that you probably rubbed up to every dame in your club tonight?" Bruce muttered, looking down at him. Dick managed a smile.

"You know you're the only one I plan on going home with, though, Officer Wayne," he let a little bit of a playful drawl enter in his voice, rocking his body best he could against Wayne's more unyielding form.

His lover wasn't amused. "You know, unless going home with your arresting officer would keep you from being some jailbird, huh?"

"Bruce, I'd _never_," Dick frowned, and when he sensed that this was an actual issue, he sagged against the wall, and reached up again, touching his lover's face, rubbing at the wrinkles that were starting to show at the corners or his eyes. "Hey, come on, I wouldn't go to someone's bed like some cheapy! I'm _here_, got it, big man? Right here."

Bruce watched him for a moment, seeming to be conflicted, before his shoulders lowered a bit, and he leaned down, kissing Dick again. "You better mean that, Grayson. This – I don't _do_ this." He growled, before grabbing Dick into a deeper kiss, hands working at Dick's vest and suspenders as if he couldn't decide which he needed to remove first. It seemed to break whatever spell had kept Dick still, because he was working just as quickly at Bruce's uniform – the tie would take a bit of hunting later, and he would probably have to sew a button or two back onto Bruce's uniform but he had definitely been right in his estimation that the shirt looked better on the floor in the first place.

That didn't matter right at the moment, though. The rustle of his own dress shirt slipping to the floor didn't matter either, not when Bruce was kissing down his neck and across his shoulder, not when he himself was working on Bruce's belt and then one of Bruce's fingers looped into his pants and tugged him forward, away from the door.

Automatically – he knew this song and dance routine, could do it with his eyes shut, but dammit if every time with Bruce wasn't worth memorizing every moment for playback later – he started to lead the way towards the hall, towards the bedroom that was just ajar, welcoming and waiting and he passed the clock. Fifteen past two, Bruce had kept him waiting forever, but right now, half undressed, that didn't matter.

Bruce apparently didn't care for being led tonight, though. He reached out, caught Dick's wrist, and turned them both, enough to send Dick tripping over the couch arm instead, landing in a fit of laughter, before flipping himself over so that he at least faced upright when Bruce followed him down shortly after, once he had kicked off his pants and socks and shoes. And if that didn't manage to get Dick aching and curling his toes and clinging onto Bruce as if he was some lifesaver in the middle of the darkness, well, nothing would.

His own pants were quick to follow, and he toed his socks off to disappear somewhere off the couch along with everything else discarded in haste, and the world stopped turning, he swore to the stars, when bare skin met skin for the first time all night. He let out a soft breath that was closer to a moan than a sigh and Bruce buried a hand in Dick's thick hair and pressed a kiss to the side of his head and _rocked_.

Dick scrambled his hands for purchase in Bruce's back, while Bruce's other hand slipped between them, venturing down, and then it was tugging gently, rubbing and pulling.

"Oh fuck, B. C'mon, don't tease me, please?" He managed to get out, before another, slightly louder moan escaped him, his head falling back onto one of the throw pillows that littered the couch, making it an uneven, but soft surface that was good enough.

Bruce didn't respond verbally, simply bit a mark into the base of his throat, and slid his hand elsewhere, and any idea of begging went straight out of Dick's head. Begging needed coherency and that was just shot straight through. Instead he arched up into Bruce's build, curling a leg around Bruce's, and hung on while Bruce laid claim to his body.

They rocked together when Bruce finally slid home, and Dick was seeing stars when he closed his eyes. He felt full and cared for and warm. Bruce's body was a welcome weight over him, near-silent and unyielding, a prescence that was comforting and undeniably, absolutely the one thing that Dick had always needed and never known until it was there. They fit perfectly, too, lithe and plenty of give, loud and expressive against strong and unmovable, thorough but silent, like the puzzle pieces that made the whole picture fall into place.

The sex only grew rougher, harder, each slide and slam more pronounced, less time between, their mouths meeting in kisses that nearly weren't, lips searching for and often missing in the frenetic motions they were pushed and pulled into. Bruce marking him as his with every brush of his hands, every bite or kiss or sigh breathed into his hair, molding him into something that someday, they might be able to share in the light of day.

Dick had long since lost control of what made it's way out of his mouth – no words formed, but surely, his neighbors would be none too pleased with the level his voice was taking on, whimpering and moaning and egging his lover on all within the same breath. Likely, he'd be hoarse in the morning, but that had hardly any meaning to him.

The room felt abnormally quiet, after. It fell silent and the ticking of the clock on the wall once more made itself a welcome houseguest among the soft panting, heaving of their chests, the quiet smack of kisses too sated and tired to hold any real finesse. Dick stretched out under him, groaning softly, and then went boneless against the couch – the pillows had long since been displaced, joining their discarded clothes on the ground, and while Dick was a mess and greatly in need of a shower, he didn't care. It wasn't often that Bruce lingered after they felt into bed together, and it would be unfair to say the least, to not enjoy every possible moment.

He flashed a small smile, and kissed Bruce's jawline in slow, quick kisses, making his way up to his mouth, lingering there. Bruce humored him, returned the kiss thoroughly, lazily, easing his tight grip off Dick's hip and moving to lay beside him instead, draping a loose arm across his hip. "You need a better job. A less illegal one." He murmured, finally, resting his forehead in Dick's hair.

"You mean one that won't lend me to flirting with any ol' flapper."

"Well, there would, of course, be some perks to getting you out of the club business," he conceded. "Don't want to go in to the station for work and find you locked up and waiting trail though."

"We'll see, big man." Dick snorted softly, before turning and curling into him. He didn't want to get into this. Not now. Not ever, preferably, but he knew he'd give into Bruce eventually. Bruce was unyielding, and even then, probably the best thing that ever happened to him. He'd be honest with himself about that, at least. "Stay until sunrise, officer? I can make a mean cup of joe."

The answering grunt was more than enough, and it brought a smile to his lips. And maybe waiting around for Officer Bruce Wayne really would end up being the best thing he ever did with his sorry life.


End file.
